


Five Times They Missed Their Reservations And One Time They Didn't, Sort Of (The Five-and-One Remix)

by circ_bamboo



Category: White Collar
Genre: Multi, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-22
Updated: 2012-04-22
Packaged: 2017-11-04 02:30:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/388702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/circ_bamboo/pseuds/circ_bamboo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exactly what it says on the tin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times They Missed Their Reservations And One Time They Didn't, Sort Of (The Five-and-One Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Loving Up On Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/113351) by [zarabithia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zarabithia/pseuds/zarabithia). 



_One_

In some ways, Gavin Roarke wasn't that interesting of a catch. He forged checks in such a pedestrian manner and used them to rob banks, and even when he kidnapped the bank teller, he'd just stuffed her in the back of the van, in plain view of a security camera. It shouldn't have taken nearly as long as it did to catch him and get the bank teller back.

But it did, and Peter and Neal didn't get home until almost eleven, which was three hours after their reservations and a full hour and a half after Elizabeth got home.

“Look,” El said, her hair still up in a towel turban, a glass of wine in one hand. “Let’s just put on a bad movie and make out on the couch.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Neal said immediately.

“Let me go change out of the suit,” Peter said.

He headed upstairs, and Neal followed him, picking up El’s discarded shoes where they rested on the last step.

Peter took his suit off and put it back on the hanger. Neal made a face, and while Peter pulled a sweatshirt over his head, resettled the suit so it hung properly. He also made Peter put the shoe trees in his shoes, and hang his tie on the correct hook on his tie rack.

Neal’s idea of comfortable lounging clothes was khakis and a t-shirt with a zip-front sweater. He looked good, Peter had to admit, but it seemed a little bit overkill. “El’s going to complain about the zipper,” he said.

“So she can lay on your chest,” Neal said.

“That means you get to rub her feet.”

“I am just fine with that.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Peter echoed, and Neal grinned.

_Two_

"He's getting away!" yelled Jones.

"Oh, no, he damn well isn't!" Peter yelled back. "I've got dinner reservations at Delmonico’s tonight!" He squared his shoulders, prayed his shoes wouldn't come untied, and _ran_.

He caught the guy, but managed to turn an ankle while doing it. Five hours in the emergency room determined that it wasn’t broken, which he’d been _telling_ them the whole time, and netted him a bottle of prescription-strength ibuprofen and strict instructions to stay off the foot for a few days.

“Ibuprofen,” Neal said dismissively. “They could have given you Darvocet at the very least.”

“He wouldn’t have taken it,” El said.

Needless to say, they didn’t make their reservations.

_Three_

“What do you mean, there’s no reservation for Burke? How about Caffrey?”

“No, sir, there is no reservation under the name Burke or the name Caffrey.”

“What about Halden? Or Devore? Or Benjamin Cooper?”

“None of those, either, sir.”

“Neal!”

“Calm down, Peter.”

“You . . . do your thing.”

“What . . . thing?”

“You know, your _thing._ Where you, I don’t know, smile at people and things happen.”

_Sigh._ “Peter, this is Aquavit. I can’t . . . smile and spontaneously cause a reservation to appear.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

_Sigh._ “Okay.” _Pause._ “I guess we’re stopping for Thai on the way home.”

_Four_

When Peter turned into his neighborhood, the whole block was suspiciously . . . dark. And quiet. It wasn’t that late in the evening--only sevenish--but no one had their lights on, even the older couple on the corner who left the floodlights on all day and night. He parked, got out of his car, and went inside, and it was still dark, even though El was supposed to be home and he’d sent Neal away almost two hours ago. “El?” he called out.

“In here,” she said, and he followed her voice to the living room.

She and Neal were sitting on the couch with Satchmo, and he scratched the dog’s ears for a moment before greeting the two humans with kisses.

“We can’t go out tonight,” Neal said, after Peter sat down.

“Why not?” Peter asked.

Neal glared at him. “The electricity’s out.”

“All the better reason to leave the house, right?”

El looked like she was about to laugh, and Neal sighed. “You have an electric hot-water heater.”

“And . . .?”

“And the electricity has been out since about ten this morning.”

“Which means . . .?”

“It means no showers,” El said, “and no iron to touch up shirts, and no hair dryer or curling iron or anything. And neither of us is willing to show up to Greenhouse 36 without any of that.” Her look said _and you shouldn’t be, either._

“Oh,” Peter said, and heaved his own sigh. “I guess we could order pizza.”

_Five_

Really, this time they meant to go to the restaurant; it was Per Se, and even Neal hadn’t been able to get a reservation less than a month in advance. When Peter got home, though, he found Neal in the bedroom on his knees, wearing only one of his white shirts, unbuttoned, face buried between El’s legs. El, for her part, was wearing a beige slip and black garters and hose; it was a really, really wonderful picture.

Was he really supposed to resist?

No. No, he wasn’t. “Can I join in?” he asked quietly.

“Oh, yes,” El said. Neal gave him a thumbs-up without ceasing his ministrations.

He toed off his shoes and pitched his jacket and tie over a chair before climbing on the bed to kneel behind El, legs outside hers. Covering her breasts with his hands, he rubbed his thumbs over the satiny fabric, right over her nipples, and felt her shudder against him. Her head fell back against his shoulder, and she gasped.

Peter slid one hand down her stomach to find the hem of her slip, which was rucked up around her hips, the hem barely brushing against Neal’s forehead. His fingers crept under the satin and found their way to her skin, warm and silky. He stroked a line just inside her hipbone, over to her navel; he cupped the curve of her abdomen for a moment, and then slid his palm up to rest just under her breasts.

Neal made a muffled _mmf_ noise, and Peter looked down to see that El had clenched her fingers in his hair. He reached down, detangled her hands gently, and held one in each of his, so she’d have something to hold on to--something to push against as she strained toward orgasm.

“Neal,” she said, gasping; she squeezed Peter’s hands, and pushed her shoulder blades into his chest. He bent down, used his nose to push one of her straps off her shoulder, and pressed lips to her skin.

“El,” he breathed, and set his teeth to her shoulder, biting lightly.

He felt her orgasm build, through the tensing and trembling of her legs, her hips, her back, and finally her shoulders, and then explode through her as she cried out wordlessly. She sagged against him, and he stroked her sides gently as she came back down.

Neal sat back on his heels and wiped off his face with the back of one hand, and smiled at Peter. “It’s the stockings,” he said.

“Well, yeah; I knew that,” Peter said. He maneuvered El so she was lying on the bed, head somewhere near the pillow, and held a hand out to Neal. “Get up here.” A moment later, he added, “And leave the shirt on.”

An hour and a half later, Peter murmured, “What time were our reservations?”

Neal swore, and El chuckled.

_and One_

Peter sent Neal away just before five, and did everything short of barring the door of his office to keep _anything_ from happening in the next hour.

Of course something did--nothing important, but it needed his attention for an extra half hour or so--but he’d prepared for that. He’d brought another suit, shirt, and tie, this set approved by Neal, and changed in the bathroom before he met El and Neal at the restaurant.

Au Jardin de Carlos, it was called, which translated to the incredibly-pedestrian “Carlos’s Yard,” Neal had told him. The architecture was vaguely Mediterranean, and Neal and El were seated at a square table just near an arch, each with a glass of wine, as Peter got there. He kissed El on the cheek and squeezed Neal’s shoulder before sitting down.

“You made it,” El said.

“I did,” Peter said. “Not more than a few minutes late, even.”

“It’s a miracle,” Neal said, the irony heavy in his voice.

The menu was all in French, of course, but even without Neal’s overly-solicitous help he was able to pick out a chicken dish that sounded tasty. The server brought him a glass of the same wine El was drinking and took their orders even without wincing at Peter’s accent.

They all received the same soup course, some sort of cream-of-asparagus soup that was rich and delicious but not nearly as heavy as he’d been expecting. The entrees were incredible as well, the chicken succulent and juicy and the vegetables perfectly seasoned. Peter waited until they were largely done with their meals before he held up his wineglass and said, “To making our reservations, for once.”

Neal and El exchanged a glance and clinked Peter’s glass and drank. “Actually,” El said, “we didn’t need reservations for this restaurant.”

“We didn’t?” Peter asked, and the other two shook their heads _no_. “But the . . .” He looked around and realized that there _were_ a few empty tables in the restaurant, here and there. “So we didn’t manage to . . .?”

El shook her head again.

“Damn,” Peter said, and sighed.

**Author's Note:**

> All the restaurants mentioned are in New York City, except the last one, which is actually outside of Montreal, and incidentally, the only one I've actually been to.


End file.
